t it into flame. It all happened within the space of a
minute, but it was one of those minutes the memory of which no years can
destroy. She had hardly time to realise the terror of the situation
before Rosalind was rushing towards her with outstretched hands, calling
aloud in accents of frenzied appeal--

"Peggy! Peggy! Oh, save me, Peggy! I'm burning! Save me! Save me!"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

While the young folks had been enjoying themselves in the ballroom,
their elders had found the time hang somewhat heavily on their hands.
The evening had not been so interesting to them as to their juniors.
Lady Darcy was tired with the preparations of the day, and the countess
with her journey from town. Both were fain to yawn behind their fans
from time to time, and were longing for the moment to come when they
could retire to bed. If only those indefatigable children would say
good-night and take themselves off! But the echo of the piano still
sounded from the room, and seemed to go on and on, in endless
repetition.

Everything comes to those who wait, however--even the conclusion of a
ball to the weary chaperon. At long past midnight the strains died
away, and in the hope of an early release the ladies roused themselves
to fresh conversational effort. What they said was unimportant, and
could never be remembered; but at one moment, as it seemed, they were
smiling and exchanging their little commonplace amenities, two languid,
fine ladies whose aim in life might have been to disguise their own
feelings and hide the hearts that God had given them; the next the
artificial smiles were wiped away, and they were clinging together, two
terrified, cowering women, with a mother's soul in their faces--a
mother's love and fear and dread! A piercing cry had sounded through
the stillness, and another, and another, and, while they sat paralysed
with fear, footsteps came tearing along the passage, the door was burst
open, and a wild, dishevelled-looking figure rushed into the room. A
curtain was wound round face and figure, but beneath its folds a long
white arm gripped convulsively at the air, and two little feet staggered
about in pink silk slippers.

Lady Darcy gave a cry of anguish; but her terror seemed to hold her
rooted to the spot, and it was her husband who darted forward and caught
the swaying figure in his arms. The heavy wrappings came loose in his
grasp, and as they did so an unmis